The true meaning of your poems
by NotYoloEnough4
Summary: I was wondering if this fit in this site... Anyway. It's a YAOI story about poets, poetry, rivalry and a lot of weird feelings. Warnings. Contains more or less explicit sex (homosexuality too, later on) and a bit of bad language.
1. Chapter 1

_Counting the depths of green_

There's one funny thing about my life: when I messed it up completely, I didn't even notice. Well, it's not like you can see the depth of things when you're twelve years old, but it still felt awkward to think back. I've always though of myself as an active person in whatever I did. I could keep on hard work easily and I didn't give up. I believed everything was achievable with motivation. How wrong I was...!

My name is George Leroy. I'm a frenchman, deeply interested in arts, especially poetry. Until a while, I was planning to become a poet, too. I'm fourty at the moment, but I believe the past is more important in this story, comparing to the present.

At twelve, even though I couldn't define myself a rebel, I'd say they didn't consider me enough. I had a complex opinion on the world, which my lawyer father couldn't quite get. His views were all about money and material goods. He was a heavy drinker, also. I never really had a great respect for him (especially not when I had to carry him to the hospital at ten), but he gave off an aura which filled my heart with the darkest fear. I was afraid he was going to hit me. He never did it, but there was a possibility. Maybe this was the reason I never told him about my interests. When I read poem books I always lied they were prose. My father liked literature but he hated poetry; he thought of it as a joke made out of prose.

One day, after an argument with him, I escaped from home as a whim. I wasn't planning to live on the streets; I just wanted to be away for a while. I knew I could go far enough to prevent them finding me. I had an athletic build so I could run fast. I went to the nearest park, however. I actually had a paper and a pencil with me. That place held some kind of magic for me. The trees were of a glowing emerald and the white, soon-to-be-storm sky made them stand out even more. I wanted to put this line in one of the poems and I started to think of the rest, when something completely disturbed my sight. There was a small boy sitting on a bench.

First, I couldn't decide if I should approach him or not. ,,Is it rude to tell someone to leave a place just because you want to write a poem about it?" I wondered. I couldn't spot what the kid was doing, so I went closer, curiously. He was scribbling something. For a short moment, he reminded me of myself, so it was harder and harder to think about chasing him away. When I almost reached him, I noticed that he was very young.

-Hey kiddo!

He didn't answer me.

-What are you doing?

Silence again. It was like he totally shut me out of his mind. I realized it wasn't worth wasting time on trying to talk to him, so I looked at what he was writing.

,,_...counting the depths of this cat-eye green..."_

The notebook was suddenly shut.

-You can't look at that without a permission!

I felt strange finally hearing that little creature's voice. It was thin and fragile, just like the person itself.

-Why is that?

I decided mocking him would be an interesting entertainment. It could even bring him to go away, if I was lucky.

-It's not done yet.

He said with a voice a thousand times shier than before.

-And can I read it when it's done?

I asked.

-Yes.

I sat beside him on that bench for a few more minutes. Could I really be so easily manipulated? He was just a weird kid from a park and still, he made me wait for him to finish that text, whatever it was.

-I finished it! Now read it.

He pushed the notebook in front of my face. When I saw its form, I realized it was a poem.

,,_There is a cat on the moonlight beam_

_Counting the depths of this cat-eye green_

_Because in the night, he deems _

_It's another eye looking at him._

_He keeps on staring at the darkened trees_

_With some leaves flying in the cold, night breeze_

_I know he will never find release_

_Until the look of those eyes cease"_

-Don't joke with me.

I yelled at him, tossing the book in the middle of the bench.

-This is strange, no one ever told me my poems were so bad!

He seemed puzzled while saying this.

-You didn't even write this, you liar brat!

-Stop calling me names! I wrote it in front of your eyes, old man!

-In front of my eyes? You didn't even show me what you were doing!

We were unconsciously shouting at each other. Not a single soul was there. It was like having a shipwreck with that little guy.

-If you really wrote that, prove it. Show me your handwriting! I bet you don't even know how to write! You're just sitting here, showing off to whoever comes around!

-I accept.

When I challenged him, I was actually convinced he was bluffing. This is why it was a great shock seeing he was right.

,,_My name is Nathan Quentin Mercier. My best friend is Sot, a guy I made from dad's papayas and bananas."_

Even though it was a foolish phrase, I could see the writing matched.

-How old are you, Nathan Quentin Mercier?

-I'm five.

-What? That's impossible! There's no way I'll believe that!

He made a guilty expression and uttered:

-I'm sorry. The truth is, I'm four. I want people to believe I'm bigger.

-How can you even write?

I asked with a trembling voice. I was starting to realize I just met the creepiest person I'd ever see in my life.

-I asked dad how to do it and he showed me. But that was only half a year ago.

I couldn't help but glare and glare and glare. Was he fooling around? I could believe he was four by his looks and how naïve he was, but how was it possible to such a small kid to write, invent poems and keep perfect track of time? I couldn't even remember what happened when I was his age...

I decided to introduce myself.

-I'm George Leroy, pleased to meet you.

The last thing I expected from the kid was to burst out in laughter.

-Did I say something funny?

I dared to ask, which made him chuckle even more.

-No, it's nothing... Your name is funny!

I couldn't quite get it. My name seemed one of the most common french names around at those times. It should've been vice versa; you don't see many Nathan Quentin Merciers.

When the boy stopped laughing, I decided to go on a walk with him. I actually started to become interested. While talking, I found out more about his personality traits. He was a typical kid who liked to show off. Sometimes he just went in crowded places and drew attention by reading out his poems as loud as he could. I wasn't old enough to evaluate his pieces of work yet, but I could say they kept me entertained. His writing sucked the reader in like a void. Sometimes I even forgot to breathe while immersing in his rhymes and found myself gasping for air.

I couldn't exactly say that Nathan Quentin Mercier was my friend, however, when I lost sight of him some months later, it still felt like a loss.


	2. Chapter 2

_A considerable kid with a great taste of style_

The drifting away of Mercier came to my mind again when his poems started to be published in newspapers. His work evolved a lot since last time and now I was completely sure of it: he had a devil's some point I even started to collect them, maniacally looking through every single print like a stalker. I started to feel more and more interested about what happened to him. With all those editions, he should've been a milionare by then. The idea I got was a really stupid one: I was planning to start frequenting the park where I met him more often. I tried to convince myself that I did it because it was a nice, inspiring place, but my mind knew exactly why I went there. The one thing I didn't expect was my plan to actually work out.

The environment changed little since my childhood. The color of the trees didn't get weaker and the magic aura was still there. But, however, there was something which I didn't see back then. It was like a crowd of teenagers, jostling carelessly under those platans. They were surrounding something I couldn't see from there. When I got closer I saw they were beating up a dirty, shattered thing on the ground.

I was already twenty-six at that time, so I tossed away the punks to see what was in the middle. My bad presumption was right: it was a person. A small, filthy, messed-up person, bracing his or her arms around the head for self-defence. The poor creature was curled up on the ground, not daring to look nor make a sound. I chased away the group of boys, who were apparently pissed, then I lifted the individual in my arms.

-Are you all right?

I turned the victim of the bullism around.

-Hey Monsieur!

The person said with a weak voice, letting out a light chuckle. My heart skipped a beat when our eyes met.

-It's...It's actually you...!

I stated. I was so confused I didn't even know what to say.

Because the small guy in my arms was Nathan Quentin Mercier. Even under the thick layers of dirt, pain and age, I could still recognize those madness-touched eyes of a four-year-old kid. He sure did grow up, but still, everything was the same. The laughter, too.

-Thanks for saving me, Monsieur!

Not caring about the beating he'd just suffered, I started shaking his shoulders.

-What? You don't remember me?! Do you know who I am?!

He glanced at me from under his monocle.

-No, Monsieur, I guess you weren't quite a memorable person in my life...

-But I know you! You're Nathan Quentin Mercier! Your best friend is Sot, made of pineapples or whatsoever! You wrote a poem about a cat looking at the trees in this park, where we met! Don't you remember?

It should've looked like a complete nonsense from the outside, but from the sparkling in his eyes, I understood that Mercier caught the meaning of all of it.

-Oh, you're that kid, Monsieur! This is strange, how did you recognize me?

His laughter was now interrputed by a rough coughing. I stood up and lend my hand to help him.

-Mind to visit my home? I'll treat your injuries!

I told him smiling. He nodded, but staggered right after that, so I had to support him on the way.

-No, seriously, Monsieur, how did you find me?

He asked curiously.

-How could I ever forget you? A four-year-old kid writing genious poems is not a common sight in this district!

-Well, that means I didn't grow enough.

He pouted. I found it rather cute. Besides this, he was right. He was awfully short and thin for the age of eighteen.

I shivered in enthusiasm when we finally reached the gate of my house. It was a flat, actually, not a family house. There wasn't enough space for those in Paris' downtown. The building was made of bright, red bricks and it had a beautiful, wrought iron fence, painted green. I opened then closed the main door after us, which led us to the staircase. My family lived on the fourth level, which was the highest one in the house. When we approached the door, I rang the bell.

A click of keys indicated that someone was opening up for us. With a creak of the door, I found out it was the worst possible person: my father.

-George? Who is _this_?

He sounded like I woke him up in his sleep, but I could tell by the smell that he was piss drunk. Despise this, I tried to act normally.

-Father, meet Nathan Quentin Mercier! His injuries need treatment, may I know where is the first aid kit?

The old man didn't say a word. Instead, he proceeded slowly, with insecure steps, and after a few minutes he gave me the little box with a cross on it. I made him sit on the couch, while my father went back to sleep, drink or whatever he was doing before.

-Fold up the end of your pants!

I ordered him, when I saw the red patch on his left leg. I kneeled down and started to wrap the (quite big) injury in bandage. I couldn't help but wonder how his leg didn't break. It was even thinner then all the other parts of his body. I could see how young he was: there wasn't even proper hair on his shin; only fluff. I took care of all the wounds left by the beating up, then we sat beside the coffee table to have a talk.

-Why did those punks beat you up?

I suddenly decided to ask. I was so awestruck by Mercier's presence, that I forgot about the most important details.

-Well, I guess they were jealous. I got quite a reputation now, you know!

Even though I agreed with the fact, I kept myself from telling him how much I liked his poems. When we first talked, I already realized, his ego wasn't the smallest thing in this world. It was legit after all, but I thought a humble person could make a better impression to everyone.

-Yes, I know. I saw your work in the newspaper.

I told him, in the end. He seemed overwhelmed.

-Really? What do you think about them?

-Not bad, really not bad. You might become a great poet one day.

Somehow, this turned him off. He sat back on the couch from where he previously jumped up in excitement.

-I knew it. 'One day'. It's always 'one day'.

-What's the problem with that? It's not like you're not talented.

-I know! But why is something lacking from my poems even though I see them as perfect? Please, George, tell me what's missing!

He began to shake my shoulders violently. I didn't mean to upset him this much and now I felt kind of guilty.

-Chill out, Monsieur Mercier! It's just your age, you can't do anything about it. You've just become an adult, you can't expect to be better than the great masters!

He didn't calm down, instead, he even became angrier. He hopped up again, and started walking around my living room in circles.

-The 'great masters' are just ordinary! That's not what I want!

I almost laughed ad the kid. He was eighteen and he was shooting off insults at people like Moreau and Lefebvre (which were popular poets at those times).

-I want to become a master even at this age! I know I have the talent and the intelligence to make it, so why isn't it working?

I couldn't help but pat his head and say:

-That's because you're stubborn.

I gave Mercier some clothes (my older ones, due to his sizes) and let him go with a kind goodbye. We exchanged adresses, so we could meet or send letters whenever we wanted. The 'Kid master' left with a warm smile and the feeling of having made a new friend. He didn't know what _I _was thinking, however.

I wasn't his friend. I was just the same considerable kid with a great taste of style as back then, when I recognized the sparkle fourteen years ago.


	3. Chapter 3

_Confessions of a closet poet_

Even though this story is basically about Mercier and his complexities, now it's time to talk about myself.

I went to a high-class school and after an excellent graduation, I was enrolled to the University of Paris. My lifestyle didn't change despise the wild student life going on around me. I had a very strict circle of intellectual friends. My secret dream was to become a poet, but I kept it to myself. I was not Mercier. I was afraid that they were going to laugh at me. While I masked my interests with philosophy faculty, I wrote all night instead of sleeping. This, of course, fairly damaged my appearance. There were dark circles around my eyes all the time, my skin was pale, and I always forgot to cut my black hair. After some time, people started to avoid me and call me the 'grumpy wolfman'.

How many things I went through which they didn't know about! My personal life was a disaster. I struggled to find myself a lover, but all the girls who dared to approach me were ugly, kind of the left-overs of student society. I only met a pretty one once; one of the strangest stories of my life.

Her name was Margaux and the moment I saw her, I was overwhelmed with the prettiness. She looked like a doll: shiny, brown hair collected in symmetrical locks, big, green eyes, pearl-white skin with rose-pink cheeks, small nose, elaborated mouth... Her expression radiated regular all-rightness and indifference towards the world. She had a petite build with medium-size breast and she dressed in cute clothes decorated with ribbons and frills.

She showed me a small, pleased smile as she asked me if I could accompany her to the student lounge, since she was new to the university. I tried to seem loose and act cool, but I stopped after a while, in the fear of messing it up.

-Where are you from?

I tried desperately to initiate a conversation.

-Versailles.

Her voice was polite and faint. I decided to keep on asking questions.

-That's a nice city. Who's recieving you here, in Paris? Are some family members of yours living here?

-Not quite. I'm living at Baroness Perrin's mansion at the moment.

,,So she's a spoiled brat" I thought.

After taking Margaux to the lounge, we chatted some more, and due to her naïveness, I managed to bring her to my bedroom.

Oh, how much I hated that girl's character! It seemed that the prettier a woman looked, the more stupid she was. It took half an hour for her to get the hints I was giving off, and I figured out she was actually a virgin. Well, I didn't care anymore. The sexual frustration was driving me crazy. It's hard to be unattractive at twenty.

I looked at her face (but, be careful, dear reader, only her _lips_!) and whispered:

-Kiss me already.

She actually did it, but it was so half-assed I almost laughed. It seemed like it was supposed to be chaste, but that was even _weaker than chaste_. I got angry and decided to show her how to do this kind of thing. Even though I didn't have a lot of experience either, I've already done it with an older girl at sixteen. I ravished and devoured Petite Margaux's fine mouth, roughly pushing my tongue inside, making her squirm due to the lack of air.

-S-stop it... Can't breathe...

She said when I distanced my lips from hers.

-Sorry, honey. This is how people kiss in Paris.

Without waiting for the reply I repeated my actions, now pushing her down on the dirty bed in the flat my mother bought me a year before. I touched her body all over. So mediocrely woman-like, so ordinary, so plain. I groped her butt while I managed to tug off her clothes. It was an absurdity, she was wearing like three skirts one on top of the other.

When she was finally naked, I felt like a kid who just wrapped out his christmas present. I thoroughly studied the texture of her breast while keeping her entertained by those kisses so new to her. She had a nice body, really. A nice, regular, proprtioned body, just like mine. We were a perfect, average couple.

-W-wait, George!

She said weakly when I slipped my fingers in some, well, _critical _places.

-What is it?

-What if I...

-If you?

-If I get pregnant!

I wanted to bang my head into the wall. That hoe really did know nothing.

-Don't worry,

I explained to her.

-I'm going to pull it out before I come.

-...Pull it out?...

She looked horrified. It was hard not to laugh.

-Yes. But I need to put it in first...

And so did I. My urge to destroy that empty, doll-like expression and replace it with a twitch either of pain or pleasure grew in me and I relentlessly fucked her in the matress which emitted dust accumulated there from years ago.

She actually started to enjoy it after a while, that annoying, masochistic chit. She screamed out for more and I gave her more. I was on the edge of coming when I made a mistake: I looked her in the eyes.

I wanted to pull away and run out of this world. Green. Emerald green.

-What's going on?

She asked me, wondering why I stopped. I had to analyze the situation and think quickly. Of the two possibilities I had, I chose the second.

-Nothing. I'm sorry for being rough with you, I was upset. I'll try to be gentler.

She didn't laugh, chuckle, guffaw or whatsoever. She just smiled at me kindly.

-Thank you.

And that night, I made love to that girl.


	4. Chapter 4

_About wet dogs and cr__êpes_

The Margaux-case happened before my second meeting with Mercier and I wondered why the memory floated back as I saw him. The two things had nothing to do with each other; at least, that's what I thought.

I told the kid that he could come anytime. It was summer break in those days, so I lived in my father's house momentanely. My mother died in the meanwhile and no one took care of the old geezer anymore. That didn't mean his company wasn't boring as hell, of course.

So, on sunny days we would go for a walk. And on rainy days (like the one I'm going to talk about) we just tried to entertain ourselves at home (something we rarely succeeded with). As I told you, it was a rainy day. No, not just rain, it was the biggest goddamn storm of the century.

-You know, son,

My old man started to tell me

-Whoever goes out with this weather is a bloody madman!

-You bet.

I couldn't come up with a more intelligent answer. The surprise was, when someone actually knocked on the door.

-I'll go open.

I said, getting up from the airmchair I've been sitting on until then. My father didn't react; not like I expected him to. When I opened up, a huge mass of wet hair and clothes flew in without saying anything.

-Monsieur Mercier!

I yelled after him. He turned around and showed off a flashing smile which wasn't quite credible with him looking like a wet dog.

-Are you crazy, Monsieur? Why are you taking a stroll in the middle of a storm?

-Actually, I came to visit you, but the weather got a bit scary in the meanwhile, tee-hee!

Even though he knew he could catch a serious cold, he was still amused by the situation.

-The sky is covered in gray clouds since morning, Mon-

-Just call me Nathan, y'old man! I won't get angry if you stop aknowledging my mightiness!

He carelessly tossed his drenched coat on the floor while saying this. ,,His manners need some correction, too" I thought.

-I'll get you some change clothes!

I informed him. He thanked me in response and decided to have a chat with my dad. I tried to be as fast as possible; I was slightly afraid of what he would do to an oblivious dumbass like Mercier. Yes, that was the point. He was an oblivious dumbass, but still, gifted. These two sides of him just didn't get along in my mind and this troubled me a lot.

Again, I'd give my old clothes to him. He was actually the best use for my old guardrobe. I led him to my room where he could change. I showed him the basket where he could put the wet ones, and was about to leave, when he started unbuttoning his shirt. I couldn't precisely describe my expression in that moment. When I realized what was happening, I ran out and shut the door behind me.

-Monsieur Mercier!

I managed to shout in.

-Next time, could you please tell me to leave the room in time?

The reply came after a few seconds of silence.

-Sure thing, if you say so!

Some time later, Nathan Quentin Mercier made his 'flashing appearance', wearing my high school robes as if they were made of silk.

-So, what did you come to do?

I asked. It was just the two of us in the living room by then, my father decided to go to sleep.

-You know,

He started

-There'll be a huge-ass party next Saturday and we were told by the host to bring someone, so I decided to ask you!

I didn't remember getting so familiar with him...

-And don't you have a girlfriend to bring? Just by curiosity...

I told him instead of thanking or such things. The good thing about Mercier was that you could be as impolite as you wanted with him; you couldn't beat him at that. Anyway, my question was one of the many-many things which made him laugh like crazy.

-A girlfriend? And who has time for that? Besides, I hate staying by the side of one girl. It's like eating the same kind of sweets all your life.

-What kind of woman are you interested in, Mercier?

I inquired.

-Oh, just _any _kind. Thin or fat, blonde of brunette, short or tall; it's fine as long as it's a chick!

Sometimes I wondered how could a complex person have such shallow views of life.

-Why, what kind of women do _you_ like?

He asked me.

-Well, it's not like I have many chances with them.

-Come ooon, you'd only have to sleep a bit and wash yourself, George, you could be one handsome guy!

-Well, thanks.

I mumbled. Then, I decided to tell him my story.

-You know, I had a strange one-night stand once.

I started to narrate him how I met Margaux, just like I told you. The lounge, the bedroom-thing (trying to be the less explicit possible).

-And, I swear, I wanted to commit suicide when I saw her eyes.

I said when I got to the most interesting part.

-Why, were they so beautiful?

-No, that's not...

-So, were her eyes ugly?

-Not really, but...

-Dear god, did she have red eyes?

-Monsieur, could you let me finish?!

When I yelled at him, he kept quiet and stared attentively, aching to know the rest of the story.

-He had greend eyes. Emerald, the same as your poem.

He blinked once or twice.

-Sorry, I'm not sure I get it.

I sighed. Of course, how would he understand? Digging in Mercier's head couldn't be this easy! How could I've thought it was even possible by just talking to him?! No, this was not the true self of the kid and I knew I had to look more. I was sure there was a bundle of nerves which caused him a personality switch if stepped on. I wanted to find it. If Mercier's mind was a crêpe, I would cut it in half to study the chocolate sauce leaking out.

I smiled at him and said:

-About the party... Yes, I'll be there. Just give me the adress.

_Drunk talk_

At that time, the plan I cherished so much after this started to develop in my head. I was writing and rewriting it all over so much that it even distracted me from work. An editor hired me, but not the way I wished for: I worked for a newspaper. That was even more infuriating, because sometimes I would have to type in His poems. I spent a lot of time mastering my own poet skills, but I was unable to evolve. My optimism said: ,,Ask for His advice!" and my pride said: ,,Do it on your own; He could!". But, about the plan: I had the great, secret wish to see Mercier's weaker side. In brief: send him to personal crisis.

The party he invited me to was a _perfect_ opportunity, so I looked forward to it very much. The afternoon before I bathed thoroughly, put litres of cologne on myself and combed my hair back, like an aristocrat. I looked in the mirror and found myself more attractive than before. ,,_One handsome guy_, huh?" I thought.

It was a plain week-end celebration. The host was a guy called Jaques Bougie; the kind of man who could waste almost everything. He seemed to weight as much as an elephant and had a chubby, ruddy face, like those children on german illustrations or an idiotic cupid.

-Oooh, new faces!

He said when he saw me.

-My my, who could you might be? If you're anyone's fiance, you're not so welcome here...

He chuckled, grunting like a pig. This annoyed me particulary; one guy laughing at his own jokes was more than enough in my life. To be honest, I was envious of all those cheerful people who didn't know the pain of complete failure. Sometimes, I just wanted to be stupid and careless like them. That was what they called being 'happy'.

-Nice to meet you, Monsieur! I'm George Leroy, and I came with a friend, you don't have to worry.

-Sweet! Come inside, quick!

He told me, smiling dumbly.

He had a beautiful mansion with a huge garden. There was a fountain in the centre. Beautiful ladies and sharp-dressed men were chatting and waddling around. I felt like I didn't belong there and it made me uneasy. Fortunately, I was ordinary enough for them not to motice me.

Soon, I saw Mercier. A crowd of women were following him, while he apparently told them some interesting story. I thought he wasn't going to pay any attention to me, but I knew he saw where I was when he suddenly started to walk towards me (and the ladies came too, of course).

-George!

He was as happy as always and suddenly started to shake my hand, ignoring the girls around him.

-Gosh, I'm glad you came! The _mademoiselles_ were starting to get bored with me!

At this phrase, they suddenly started to whisper and chuckle among themselves. I smiled with pleasure. Who knows; maybe I could get out of here with a relationship, or at least, a good lay.

-I told them you were a poet!

Mercier blinked to me.

-Monsieur, please, don't flatter me!

I answered awkwardly.

-Oh, but I know you're aiming in that direction! You could show me some of your stuff some day...

-Yes, I'll certainly do that.

The next hours were spent by keeping the girls entertained. Mercier and I tried to seek in our memory to find them good stories. I felt like a character from the Decameron. However, as time passed by, the amount of alcohol in our bodies and the irreality of those stories increased. We lied a lot, but it didn't matter; the women were just as drunk as us. I felt a madness coming, so I fled in the bathroom and tried to pull myself together.

When I came back, the situation was worse than expected. My poet _friend_ stumbled and his head hit my chest.

-Geo-geo, I've a problem!

He muttered with his face in my abdomen.

-What is it?

-I don't know if I should sleep with Marie or Louise!

I sighed and told him:

-Let's find a room and I'll pick one of them for you and send her up, all right?

-Aaall right...

He started laughing and he'd fall and break his head if I didn't catch him in time.

I supported him while going upstairs. The house had many rooms. I just picked one randomly. Fortunately, it had a king-size bed and apparently no one was sleeping or doing anything else in there. I left his shoulder and he fell on the bed with his head in the sheets.

-Now I'll tell one of them. Just stay here and relax.

I was actually planning to leave him there to sleep, but he grabbed my shirtsleeve.

-Noooo, don't leave, I'm gonna throw up!

-Is my presence really that necessary for you to throw up, Monsieur?

All I wanted was to go home and sleep. All this wildness and drinking was just too much for me after a way too serious college life.

I had many opportunities to chat with drunk people in my life (my father, for example), but none of them was like Mercier.

-You know, Geo-geo, I hate disingenuous people. Man, they just piss me off! I swear, sometimes I want to kick them in the face 'till they tell me the truth, don't you wanna do that too, Geo-geo?

I knew that asking him to quit calling me that way wouldn't lead anywhere.

-Did someone lie to you, Monsieur?

It was stranger and stranger to adress to him like that considering the state he was in.

-No, no, no, no, nooo! You don't get it at all! I'm just saying that _if_ someone lied to me, I'd...

He stopped in the middle of the sentence.

-You would?

I asked.

-I'd... I'd.. Get really angry!

Strangely, I didn't expect anything more.

-I'm glad you don't lie to me, Geo-geo!

He said after some silence, crawling closer to me. I was kneeling beside the bed and he was sprawled on it like a dead dog.

-You can't tell if someone's lying to you just by intuition!

-But you are _not_, right?

This troubled him enough to make him sit up. Maybe he wasn't as drunk as I thought so. I felt guilty, because even though I didn't technically _lie_ to him, I didn't let him know a single thing about the real me. And, worst of all, I let him believe I was his friend. I shook my head to get myself out of the sentimental mood. What about the plan?

-Say, Mercier, do you have some extremely bad memories?

-Stop calling me with my last name, for God's sake! It's creepy!

He yelled at me.

-It's all right, calm down, _Nathan_.

-Um... Bad memories, you say? My life's kind of smooth, I had a greeeeat childhood and I could always do whatever I wanted, so...

-Then, what are your fears?

I wanted to get this done.

-Some days, mom and dad would come home late and start yelling at each other. I used to ask them what was wrong but they didn't really pay attention to me...

He stopped for a moment.

-It was like a ceased to exists. I couldn't do anything. Those were the worst times of my life. I felt _forgotten_.

Exstasy filled every inch of my mind in that moment. I found it. I did it, I discovered his weakness. I calmed down and knew I could sleep with peace that night, so I lied down on the floor and closed my eyes.


End file.
